Anthony Bonham, his wife and his name featuring largely in the newspapers and on television and in public places, grimly went on with his work; was picked up by the film car at 5 am from his Stratford cottage where the snow lay now upon the bare honeysuckle branches; carried his mobile telephone in his dressing-gown pocket, in his coat pocket, had it by him in his dressing room, in the studio car, in his location caravan. He was, anyone could see, apoplectic with rage. He telephoned his house again and again and again: his own voice on the answering machine informed him, again and again and again, that he was out.

He’d had a most appalling moment last night in Hamlet. Prince Charles had come on a private visit to the theatre, as he often did, accompanied only by one male friend and a couple of bodyguards who had searched the theatre with dogs earlier in the day, as they always did. During the play scene in the middle of Hamlet Anthony’s mobile phone, which he’d by mistake put in an inside pocket in his royal cloak, fell to the ground, and as the stage was raked for this production the phone began slipping ominously, making strange clicking noises, towards the audience, many of whom caught sight of it among the Edwardian costumes, including Prince Charles’ bodyguards who had simultaneously stood up and walked noisily and single-mindedly towards the stage as the actors went on valiantly acting. Luckily Ophelia plucked the phone up in her skirt as Polonius cried lights! lights! lights! and they came offstage.

‘Thank Christ it didn’t ring, you wanker,’ Ophelia had said to Anthony, flinging it at him angrily.

Now in the car on the way to Devon he threw the offending, useless machine on to the seat beside him, turned on the news on his radio, heard some doctor droning on about the Terence Blue case on the Today programme, turned the radio off again. He picked up the phone again, rang Chiswick, then rang Molly’s number. She answered almost at once, as if she was expecting someone.

‘My God Molly darling where have you been? I’ve been phoning and phoning you, what on earth’s happening, why haven’t you answered my messages? The world’s gone crazy, something’s going wrong with The Immoralists, what is Pauline doing making a spectacle of herself, I thought it was you who found out Terence Blue was fucking impotent, is she using your evidence or what? And what was your toyboy doing at our house with Viola?’

‘Banjo was – with Viola?’ Her voice shook in disbelief.

‘At lunch last Sunday with his fucking arm around her shoulders, what’s happened? Darling we must meet, God I want you, I’ve got to see you.’